


Let me Touch you (The First Summer)

by Shay_Fae



Series: Love me with the Lights off [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Love, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Fae/pseuds/Shay_Fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen-year-old John is spending the summer at Sherlock's country house. Sherlock can't imagine anything worse.</p>
<p>Especially since he may be falling in love with the boy</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Make me Gasp

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Pozwól mi się dotknąć (pierwsze lato)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014157) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account), [Sighitt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sighitt/pseuds/Sighitt)



Sherlock was sure, beyond all scientific experimentation, that his summer was ruined.

“But Mummy!” he pleaded and he could faintly hear Mycroft behind him, muttering about how childlike he sounded. “Summer is our time.” _Alone time_ is what he thought. Time away from other children, bastardly children. That was why he _left_ school- to escape the awful boys his age. And now his mother was bringing them here?

“You boys are so lonely up here,” Victoria Holmes in the tone both boys had come to associate with _Do not trifle with me right now_. “And Cynthia is my oldest friend. Besides, her children are just your age.”

“You said Harry was nineteen and John was seventeen,” Sherlock reminded her.

“Perfect for you and Mycroft then,” Victoria said and that was the end of the discussion. One simply did not argue with Victoria Holmes when she used  _that_  voice.

And that was how Sherlock found himself standing sullenly in the driveway of their expansive summer home with Victoria and Mycroft on either side of him, watching a small Chevy pull into the driveway. The sound of gravel under tires sounded remarkably what Sherlock was sure his face sounded like rubbed up against gravel. _Please don’t let John be a rugby player. Please Newton don’t let John be a rugby player_.

A small blonde woman in cheap jeans and a loose tee-shirt stepped out and into the waiting arms of Victoria Holmes, dressed in her usual Kors fitted dress, heels and perfectly manicured nails.

“Cynthia,” Victoria crooned and the blonde woman smiled at her.

“Vivi, it’s been too long,” Cynthia said as the car doors opened behind her and two children stepped out.

“No father,” Sherlock whispered to Mycroft. “Why? No, don’t tell me. Perhaps it will occupy me for a day, keep me sane a little longer.”

“Must you always be so melodramatic?” Mycroft hissed at him, his smile never wavering.

“Hello pot, have you met kettle?” Sherlock whispered back but Mycroft was already striding out to meet the girl, his intended “playmate.” She was tall with a mess of brown hair, in torn jeans and a shirt that showed a taunt stomach and a pierced bellybutton. But Mycroft didn’t falter for a moment  _the prat_  and held out his hand.

“Harry is it?” he smiled and the girl smiled back, the expression warming her ten degrees. “Mycroft, I’m just your age it seems. Can I give you a tour?”

Harry looked around. “Jesus, this place is big. Sure you can,” she breathed and let Mycroft take her hand and lead her down the garden paths.

All that was left was Sherlock and the boy. Small like his mother, with her sandy colored hair and ocean blue eyes. Skinny, with a tee-shirt that hung loose and jeans that threatened to slip.  _Hand-me-downs. From the absent father? Might prove interesting-_ and dear god, knee scratches indicative of heavy rugby playing. Great; Sherlock could not expect beating at home as well as at school.

The boy was quiet as he came over, one hand out. “John,” he offered but Sherlock just looked as the offered hand like it was infected and John slowly lowered it.

“Let’s clear this up, shall we?” Sherlock snapped quietly, glancing over to make sure his mother was not listening. “I have no interest in being your friend. I am a scientist, mind you, and should you disturb my experiments I will hurt you.”

John looked at him as though he’d just been punched and the irony was not lost on Sherlock. He felt a bit of himself twinge as John’s eyes widened and then hardened. The boy was clearly no pushover.

“Sure mate, I’m sure I’ll manage fine on my own, thanks,” John said, his voice equally as soft but just as hard.

Sherlock picked up his bags and started towards the house, keeping up appearances and all that, and he could feel Mummy’s approving glare on his back. Apparently that was how this summer was going to work- lies and subterfuge. John gaped at him a second, not quite catching to the ruse, and then followed.

“I don’t-“ he started but shut up as they entered the house.  _Mansion was a better word_ John thought as he gaped up at the high ceiling and followed Sherlock up the steps and to a room. Sherlock dumped the bags inside as John turned.

“This is my room?” he said, eyes blown wide.

“No, it’s the kitchen, do try to be intelligent,” Sherlock snapped. He walked over to a door on the wall. “This connects to my room, apparently Mummy had high hopes for our friendship. You will never use it, understand?”

John nodded, walking over to feel the curtains like some idiot in Buckingham palace. Sherlock sighed.

John turned around at that and Sherlock started. John’s eyes were wide like Sherlock had just shown him the holy grail and he was smiling and something in Sherlock shifted and he felt as if the floor was coming up to meet him.

“This is amazing,” John said softly and  Sherlock felt dizzy. Actually dizzy. What the actual hell was this? He was coming down with the flu, he knew it, sodding Mycroft and his sodding Uni germs he brought home with him.

“If you need anything, find someone who cares,” he said quickly and closed the door to his room, his head still swimming. He need to process this. But first, he needed to check his temperature.


	2. Eat me Open

Sherlock had just sat down to check on his mice when the bell rang and he sighed.

 _Get John_  a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his mother prompted.  _He doesn’t know that’s the dinner bell._

Sherlock groaned and strode over to the connecting door. He’d told John never to use it but obviously such restrictions didn’t apply to him, right?  “That was the dinner bell-“ he started, opening the door and then stopped at the sight of a shirtless John Watson.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, ordering himself not to turn red.  _Why should I turn red? I’ve seen shirtless men before? I’ve seen Mycroft-abort. Stop remembering Mycroft shirtless. Delete, delete-_

“Don’t worry,” John laughed, reaching down into his suitcase for a new shirt. “No big right? You’re a bloke too, all the same stuff.”

Perhaps, but Sherlock’s  _stuff_  was definitely not so dark with smooth muscles and light hair that trailed down into-  _stop. Now._ What was happening to him? He’d read about lust, he’d never been blind to the interactions between other boys at Eton and the girls they kept in pictures on their walls. But surely this wasn’t it? If Sherlock was to ever like someone, it wouldn’t be someone as pedestrian as-

“Pretty ugly, isn’t it,” John said stiffly at Sherlock’s lingering stare and Sherlock suddenly noticed the scar, red and jagged, that graced John’s shoulder.

“No it’s-“ Sherlock stopped himself from saying beautiful.  _What on earth is happening to me?_ “unique.”

“That’s a word,” John smiled and pulled on his shirt, another hand-me-down tee that fell awkwardly around his torso, making him look wider, awkward in his own skin. “Did you say dinner?”

Dinner was an awkward affair with Victoria and Cynthia wrapped up in each other and Mycroft and Harry already thick as thieves. They were leaning into each other, blonde hair mixing with aurburn, and Sherlock hated them furiously. He couldn’t tell if Mycroft was shamming or not and then hated them more.

“So-“ John stared but Sherlock cut him off.

“No. Whatever you have to say will be boring,” he drawled, picking at his food.

John laughed, not easily deterred. “You can’t know that. You don’t even know me.”

Sherlock turned on him and John froze. “Know you?” he said sharply. “I know everything about you just by looking at you.”

“Impossible,” John breathed and Sherlock unconsciously leaned in to whisper.

“You play rugby, pent-up aggression no doubt, unresolved anger issues. You sleep on your left side generally, but you haven’t been sleeping well lately- nightmares. Your music taste consists of the drivel they play on the radio, you’ve always been popular- never struggled with friend. But this summer, this summer you don’t want to see your friends. Why? Obvious- they know something. And given your pent-up aggression from earlier, your poor sleep habits and your absent father- I’m guessing it’s him. Now how did he die; was it a car accident or illness?”

John stared at him and blinked, slowly. Sherlock readied himself for the rebuff but all John did was let out a breath he hadn’t noticed the boy was holding.

“How on earth did you do that?” he asked, eyes wide.

“I noticed,” Sherlock shrugged, utterly puzzled by John’s reaction. But his next response blew Sherlock out of the water.

“You’re brilliant.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock blinked.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know, you’re brilliant,” John said, his eyes never leaving the younger boy. It was disconcerting, this much eye contact. Normally it was Sherlock inflicting a thick gaze and someone else squirming beneath it.

“That’s not what people usually say,” he said softly as his stomach back flipped and he felt himself getting pulled deeper and deeper into something unnamed. _Affection_ felt saccharine and _comradery_ fell short.

“What do people usually say?” John said, taking the bait.

“Piss off,” Sherlock smiled and John laughed out loud, prompting the mothers to look down from the head of the table and smile. Then he let John finish his sentence which ran along the lines of “So I noticed there’s a lake on the property” and everything ran a little smoother after that. Especially because John let him run on and on about his algae experiment last year.

“So which was it?” Sherlock asked as they were walking back from dinner. The whole event had ended better than it had started, with Sherlock and John managing to converse for a moment without killing each other.

“Which what?” John asked, walking up the massive steps.

“Accident or illness?” Sherlock prompted.

“Neither,” John said, not a tremor in his voice. “He killed himself.” And then he closed the door to his bedroom in Sherlock’s shocked face.


	3. Run me ragged

It was always the same, the nightmare. He was running, running, but he never ran fast enough, never got far enough, and he always saw it, that picture of red and blood and the jagged bottle crashed down and he could feel himself screaming, screaming-

“What on earth are you doing?” a cold voice said and John sat up, panting heavily.

“What?’ he panted out, his heart hammering inside his chest, the blankets a sweaty mess around him.

“You’re making an abominable racket,” the voice- Sherlock- said from his position in the doorway. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Sorry,” John said softly, his breath coming out in gasps. Sherlock shot him a cold stare before turning back into his room and closing the door behind himself.

-and falling back against the door, his face turning red. John’s face had been flushed and sweaty, his eyes wide in the dark and those  _breaths_  and Sherlock could only allow himself to imagine. Other boys his age would entertain lewd thoughts, wouldn’t they? Normal boys would make comments like _Pant for me, let me see how hard you can sweat_ but that just made Sherlock feel- Oh.

  1.  Sherlock ordered himself.  _This is ridiculous and infantile. You do not like John Watson._



But he did, he  _did_  and it was pure and perfect torture and he thrust himself back into bed, willing himself not to picture John tangled up in his sheets next door and failing miserably.

Three days past before Sherlock did anything.

Three days of sitting in his room, running his experiments, trying not to notice John outside his window- exploring his gardens. John in the dining hall- laughing at a joke Sherlock whispered about Mycroft’s weight. John in the living room, his feet curled under him, reading a book- eyes twinkling as they skimmed pages.

And John at night, waking Sherlock up with his screams of utter terror and his gasps of  _pain? Confusion? Excitement?_

Sherlock finally could not  _would not_  tolerate this anymore.  _It’s just so I can sleep,_  he promised himself, lying effortlessly.  _That’s it._

He didn’t let himself bring up the argument that he slept very little as it was because it was the _idea_ that his theoretical sleep might be interrupted that was upsetting. It was the principle of it all.

It was eleven, about an hour before John usually went to sleep. Sherlock opened the bedroom door and strolled in before dropping a pair of sweatpants on the end of the bed.

John glanced up from his book from where he was curled in the huge bed  _much too big for one person_  his legs tangled under the sheets and his hair damp from the shower.

“What’s up?” he asked, his face so trusting.  _Don’t trust me. You have no idea what I want to do to you.I have no idea what I want to do to you._

“Put those on,” Sherlock ordered. “We’re going running.”

“Erm, why?” John asked.

“Strenuous exercise one hour before sleep prevents nightmares,” Sherlock said and John’s eyes widened. He didn’t mention he’d read up on all the relevant research on nightmares in a 26 hour period, skimming blogs and papers and outdated sourcebooks. That felt like the kind of information one might deem _obsessive_.

“I’m sorry, I know I’ve been bothering you-“ John blushed, ashamed and it puzzled Sherlock why anyone would be ashamed of an obviously uncontrollable function.

“I’ve decided to take a more aggressive approach to ensuring my sleep,” Sherlock cut him off as John turned redder under his gaze. “Now get dressed and meet me downstairs in ten minutes.” And with that, Sherlock shut the bedroom door and ran downstairs before his knees gave out.

John was down in six, Sherlock’s sweatpants rolled up around his ankles. “Does this really-“ he started but Sherlock cut his off with a look. “Right, of course, you’re never wrong,” John muttered and followed Sherlock outside.

The grounds were huge and the surrounding woodland stretched on for miles. Sherlock knew it like the back of his hand, even in the inky darkness, and he set off at a brisk pace for the lake at the edge of the property. He didn’t have to turn around to know that John was following him, his footsteps heavy in the night silence.

They ran in silence, their footfalls and scattered breathing the only noise, and John stayed a pace behind Sherlock, letting him lead the way. When they reached the lake, Sherlock stopped and he heard John sit down behind him, catching his breath. They waited a moment, each boy breathing deeply, before John spoke.

“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” John said softly. “I’ve never seen stars so bright.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just let his brain, now buzzing with adrenaline and endorphins, drink in the sight of a sweaty and flushed John Watson, eyes bright as he stared up at the stars. He felt his own tired insides twist, like rope, and he struggled up before his cracked-out brain could do anything  _stupid._

It felt like his body was being run by two separate people. One part of his brain wanted to catalogue all of this, John’s respiration rate, his heart rate, his pupil dilation. Wanted a blood sample and maybe a urine sample. He could write a whole paper on the effects of running on teenage nightmare victims, publish it under a pseudonym. It’d be an early Christmas present to himself.

The other side of him wanted to catalogue all of this for reasons it did not want to explain in front of polite company. Desire was strange to Sherlock, it fell like a lump in the base of his spine, and he wanted it out, cut out like a tumor. He also wanted it to stay, to revel in the impossibility of it, like a pig rolling is dirt. An apt metaphor.

“Let’s head back,” was all he said and they ran back, their bodies making long shadows in the moonlight. As they ran, their shadows held hands. Sherlock tried not to think of symbolism.

They crawled up the mansion’s stairs, panting.

“I need a shower,” John breathed, his hands on his knees. He glanced up at Sherlock and then smiled softly. “Thank you.”

“It was more for my benefit than yours,” Sherlock said.  _You have no idea how much more for my benefit_ both sides of his brain agreed.

“Regardless, thank you,” John said, still smiling, and he clapped Sherlock on the back on his way to the shower, leaving a burning imprint in its wake. Sherlock struggled, there in the hallway, to come up with a time someone had touched him willingly besides his family and came up empty.

No screams woke him up and Sherlock almost missed them.


	4. Hang me upside Down

For a while that was the extent of their interaction. They ignored each other velmently during the day and at night they ran for their lives. Sometimes they ran to the lake. Other times they ran to the woods, or to the property line, or to the highway. Sometimes they even spoke.

They spoke in tiny increments. Little things, like the weather, their plans. Once, a big thing, like when John told Sherlock he wanted to be a doctor. That had been a highway night, they’d been resting by the gravel edge when John had shared that detail.

“I want to be a doctor,” he said, his eyes never leaving the road. Sherlock turned to him and for the fifth time that day marveled in the  _perfectness_ that was John Watson. It seemed to defy any and all laws, how perfect he was. Sherlock suspected desire was dulling his senses, hated it and then loved it. “I want to fix people, you know? Help them.” He turned his eyes on Sherlock, all flushed and tousled. “What about you?”

“I want to be a pirate,” Sherlock said in all seriousness and John laughed. Sherlock loved making John laugh, it was like sunshine. He never made anyone  _laugh_  before, unless it was at him. But John never laughed at him.

“You’d be a great pirate,” he smiled and the rope inside Sherlock’s gut twisted tighter at that smile. He wanted to ruin that smile. He wanted to kiss that smile  _no. Stop it._ He’d never kissed anyone before but John would be a wonderful first kiss, he’d show Sherlock where to put his hands, he wouldn’t laugh and _Stop. Now._

“We should head back,” Sherlock said. He was always the one that told them to go back. He hated himself for making them go back. Out here they spoke. Out here they were…friends? No. Civil.

“You can talk to me,” John said suddenly, getting up. “During the day. You can talk to me, I won’t mind.”

Sherlock said nothing, just turned around and ran. But that morning, as they sat around the breakfast table, the women chattering to each other, Harry and Mycroft planning some plot or another, Sherlock turned to John.

“John?” he said softly, ashamed out how much he loved the feel of that one word on his tongue. John turned and smiled at him.

“Yeah Sherlock?” he said, looking up from his book.  _Who brought a book to the breakfast table?_ John, obviously.

“I was wondering,” he stuttered and stopped himself. Holmeses did not  _stutter_. “I was wondering if you could help me re-enact a crime scene I want to study.”

John looked at him a moment. “Can I read my book?”

Sherlock could have laughed. “I suppose so.”

“Sure.”

That was how John found himself hanging upside down by his knees from a tree, book dangling in his hands as he struggled to read, all his blood rushing to his face.

“How much longer to I need to stay like this?” he begged.

“Corpses don’t talk,” Sherlock shushed him, trying to ignore just how  _pink_  John’s ears were.

“Christ, who hangs a dead man from a tree?” John muttered.

“Precisely,” Sherlock said and then smiled. ”Oh. Oh! That’s it! John, you are brilliant! Insane amount of effort means it’s personal, it’s a stamen, I’ve been looking at his all wrong-“

“Does that mean I can get down?” John asked but Sherlock was over the moon.

“Yes! Oh John!” he started and then stopped himself.  _Dangerous. Too dangerous. We can’t-_

“Sherlock?” John asked, swinging nimbly down. But Sherlock ignored him and ran inside, his own face burning. Science. He needed science. He needed to bombard his brain with pictures of corpses and fetal pigs and wash out all evidence of John Watson smiling at him.

“Ah, Sherlock,” a voice said and he realized he’d run smack into Mycroft. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Fantastic, I had  _crush Mycroft’s hopes_  on my to-do list today, didn’t think I’d get to cross it off so early,” Sherlock quipped and kept walking.

“Sherlock, be serious,” Mycroft said, following him.

“I am the paradigm of seriousness,” Sherlock droned, walking into his room. Mycroft followed without asking and closed the door.

“I need to talk to you,” Mycroft said.

“Where’s Harry?” Sherlock asked, distracting him. The two had been practically attached at the hip since their first meeting. Sherlock had no idea what they saw in each other.

“She’s changing, we’re going swimming,” Mycroft admitted like it wasn’t some divine revelation, and Sherlock stared at him. He had very distinct, very vivid memories of Mycroft standing at the edge of the dock by the lake in blue swim trunks, refusing to be moved.

“Swimming? But Mycroft, you abhor exercise,” Sherlock laughed.

“This is not about me,” Mycroft said, still completely calm. It ruffled Sherlock, how he always managed to stay so bloody  _calm_. “We need to talk.”

“So you keep saying, but yet we-“

“It’s about John.”

Sherlock shut up. “What about John?”

“Sherlock, you need to be careful,” Mycroft said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock didn’t want him touching his stuff, fat, oily, bloody git-

“Mycroft, I haven’t the faintest what you are insinuating but you can rest assured-“

“Sherlock, I see the way you look at him,” Mycroft said and Sherlock felt himself turn red.  _Stupid, stupid_ biological reaction.

“I just want you to be careful is all,” Mycroft continued, politely ignoring Sherlock’s shame. “You finally have a friend, and I wouldn’t want-“

“Why do you care?” Sherlock snapped suddenly.

“Because you are my baby brother,” Mycroft admitted. “And I worry about you. Constantly.” He said it with the air of one resigned to his fate, accepting it with a heavy heart.

“You shouldn’t,” Sherlock said bitterly, unmoved. “You know what Mummy says. Caring-“

“Is not an advantage, I know,” Mycroft finished softly. “And yet, look at me.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, cowed by his brother. They’d been close, once. Now they were a man in a suit and a boy who hardly recognized him. It felt sadder than it should have.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Mycroft said, getting up. “It’s John Watson I worry for.”

“We’re not friends!” Sherlock said quickly as Mycroft moved to leave.

“Sherlock, the boy hung upside-down in a tree for an hour for you today. You tell me what you are,” Mycroft said condescendingly and closed the door behind him on an utterly wrecked Sherlock. Mycroft tended to do that, wreck you thoroughly and leave you to clean up the pieces.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice called from the hall and Sherlock moved to meet him.


	5. Make me Promises

He could have been happy with that, with a John that ran with him and pretended to be a corpse from time to time. But Mycroft’s words rattled him.  _Were they friends?_ Ridiculous, Sherlock didn’t have friends. But he had to test, had to  _know._

 _What did friends do?_  He honestly didn’t know. Never came up. And so he looked it up on the internet.  _They tell each other things_  the internet told him dangerously and he wondered. Just how much would John tell him?

They ran to the lake, two weeks after the corpse in the tree, deep into July when the air hung heavy with heat and humidity. They sat by it, catching their breaths, when Sherlock asked.

“Why did your father kill himself?”

It was pure curiosity, not malicious in any way, but he expected John to be angry. But John always surprised him. “You haven’t deduced it yet?” he asked, a laugh hovering in the sentence.

“Not enough data,” Sherlock excused.

John nodded. “Bit personal,” he said and Sherlock noted it. So John wouldn’t talk about his father with him. He filled that in on the chart he was constructing on John Watson deep in the West Wing.

“How’d you get your scar?” he tried instead and John smiled at him. John’s smile could stop angels, could re-write history.   _You’re getting saccharine in your dotage._

“You don’t let up, do you?” John laughed. He sighed, rolling his shoulders, and Sherlock heard them pop.

“Mugging,” John said softly and Sherlock unconsciously leaned in close to hear. He could  _feel_  John’s sweat radiating off him, could smell him. He smelled like grass and laundry detergent and sweat and  _John_. “Tried to run. Not a smart move.”

Sherlock could imagine it, John lying broken on a London sidewalk, bleeding out, and he  _hurt_. This wasn’t something he was used to. Empathy. He was empathizing, sympathizing, and he suddenly wanted to see the scar again, see the way the knife must have dug in deep and pulled at the flesh, tugging it into its own scar. He wanted a piece of it for his microscope and maybe just a piece for himself. It was getting harder, these days, to tell the two sides of his brain apart.

“Your turn,” John said, jolting him out of his thoughts, as he turned to lean against a tree.

“My turn?” Sherlock puzzled.

“Tell me something no one knows,” John said, looking at him.

Sherlock swallowed.  _I think about you, all the time. I think about kissing you and then I hate myself for it._ But what he said was, “I’ve never been kissed before.” No, that hadn’t been what he’d meant to say, but his brain hadn’t been obeying him for weeks now. Why had he even expected it to start behaving now?

John’s eyes widened. “Never?”

Sherlock could have hit himself. Now John thought he was tragic, something to be pitied.  _You are_  he reminded himself, but John didn’t need to know that. John needed to think he was perfect.

“Right,” John said softly. “I forgot, you’re younger than me.”

“Only by a year,” Sherlock insisted and John nodded.

“Still. I had my first kiss at twelve,” he confessed and Sherlock didn’t try to hide his shock. Was that normal? He tried to imagine himself at twelve, all gangly limps and untamed hair. _He_ wouldn’t have wanted to kiss that.

What did friends say to admissions of physical encounters?  “Was it… good?’ he tried and John laughed.

“Hell no, it was an awful mess,” he said, chuckling to himself and Sherlock relaxed as he realized John wasn’t laughing at him.  _Stupid, John never laughs at you._  “Sweet girl, Jeanette. My second kiss was better though.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked as the rope inside him twisted tighter,  _tighter. I don’t want to hear this._

“Sarah. She knew what she was doing,” John smiled lewdly in the dark and that smile made Sherlock’s blood rush south faster than he could say _Holmeses do not get boners in public_.

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said dryly and John let out a giggle. He stopped suddenly and brightened, as though his by an idea like a cartoon lightbulb above his head.

“Hey, I just thought- my friend Mike texted me. There’s supposed to be this house party tomorrow night, we could borrow the car. Have you been to a house party before?” John said, his words a stream of conscious.

Sherlock shook his head and John went on. “Didn’t think so. I wasn’t gonna go, you know, cause of the dad thing, but it’s perfect. House parties are the perfect place for a first kiss. We’ll find you a perfect girl, sound good?”

 _Not my area,_  Sherlock wanted to say, wanted to make clear, but Mycroft had warned him about that too. Mycroft had been the first to know, he’d found that magazine Sherlock had stashed under the bed  _such a terrible hiding place_  and sat him down.

 _“You can’t tell anyone about this Sherlock,”_ he’d said softly.  _“People won’t like it, you already stand out.”_

 _“Sod people,”_ Sherlock had said and Mycroft,  _Mycroft_  had hugged him.

 _“If only we could Sherlock,”_  he’d whispered softly and Sherlock had let him hug him.

So now all Sherlock said was, “Good.”

John smiled. “Someone gorgeous, shouldn’t be hard. You could get anyone you know, face like an angel.”

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. “No,” he protested softly and John laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Sherlock held still through the whole of it, not quite believing the warm pressure on his skull was real.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” he chided . “Bad manners.” He got up to stretch and looked down at Sherlock, framed in moonlight. “I’ll be your wingman, okay?”

Sherlock got up. “Okay,” he said and he turned to head back.

“Hear me Sherlock, we will get you your first kiss if it’s that last thing we do,” John laughed from behind him.

 _If only you knew_  Sherlock could have cried.  _If only you knew._


	6. Kiss me Breathless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little public service announcement. This is a chapter story- it's got a long way to go, don't worry! Although the support has been amazing, you guys are the best :)  
> Buckle up, we got a long road ahead of us.
> 
> And now the moment you've all been waiting for:

John knocked on Sherlock’s door that next night, dressed in a new tee-shirt and jeans. Sherlock was standing in front of his closet in just his pants, desperately trying to figure out just what one  _wore_  to these things.

“Hey, we should get going,” John advised and Sherlock turned red. John didn’t seem to notice, or  _care_  about Sherlock’s almost-nudity and just strolled in. He walked over to Sherlock’s closet and leafed through it, looking at the dress shirts and pressed pants.

“Wow. Do you guys even own jeans?” John laughed and Sherlock blushed.

“Mummy always advised us to dress more…  _smartly_ ,” Sherlock excused but John just raised one eyebrow.

“Regardless, this is all too posh. Come, I’m sure you can fit into some of my jeans,” John said, turning to the connecting door.

Sherlock eyed the height difference between them and John blushed. “They’re hand-me-downs,” John reminded him and Sherlock meekly followed John into his room.

That was how he found himself in John’s mother’s Chevy dressed in a pair of John’s jeans that were long enough but had to belted within an inch of their life and a tee-shirt bearing the name of a band he’d never listened to.

John drove well, steady and determined. He never took his eyes off the road, except to give Sherlock a quick look that sent Sherlock’s heart into palpitations. This infatuation needed to end, the sooner the better. It was positively ruining Sherlock’s life.

“It’ll be fine, don’t be nervous,” John smiled.

“I’m not nervous, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped.

“I was nervous at my first house party,” John went on as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “You a lightweight?”

Sherlock had no idea what that even meant. “No,” he found himself saying and John nodded. Right answer then. Was it perhaps a reference to Sherlock’s own, actual weight? Did people charge admission by weight to these things?

“Alright then, less for me to worry about I guess,” John said and that cleared up absolutely nothing.

“You don’t have to watch me, I’m not a child,” Sherlock reminded him. Although the thought of John watching him, John  _caring_  about him, made him warm and cold all over. _No. Stop._

“We’re here,” John said, jarring him out of his thoughts, as he pulled up in front of a larger house. The lights were all on and music spilled out into the street with kids John’s age talking and laughing, cups in their hands. Sherlock finally noticed that John looked nervous and remembered. Unidentified Dad thing.

“Let’s go then,” Sherlock prompted and they did, locking the car and heading inside.

Inside was dark and loud, with people in his personal space and music he didn’t like blaring at him from all directions. Sherlock felt uncomfortable. No, he felt  _wrong._ He didn’t belong here and it felt like everyone around him knew it. He was, for a moment, deeply grateful for the costume he wore.

 _Think of it like an experiment_ he offered his nervous stomach. _We’re observing a habitat from within. Best to blend in with the locals._

“Mike!” John shouted and a burly boy  _rugby chap_  came out from the other room and clapped John on the back in a hug.

“John, good to see you,” the boy- Mike- yelled over the music. He turned and eyed Sherlock. “Who’s this?”

“This is Sherlock, Sherlock- Mike,” John introduced as Sherlock’s mind whirled.  _Seventeen, eats too much, problems at home- father drinks? No, mother. Too much cologne, desperate. Worried about John? No, me. Why is he worried about me?_

“How do you do Sherlock,” Mike smiled, sticking out his hand and Sherlock shook it on John’s prompting.

“I promised Sherlock a girl, Mike,” John laughed and Mike grinned. Sherlock suddenly felt exposed, like a pig on dissection.

“Shouldn’t be too hard, hair like that,” Mike laughed.  _Ah, he thinks I’m better-looking than him_  Sherlock realized and could have smiled. He wanted to tell Mike he needn’t worry, Sherlock was hardly about to snatch any girls out from under him, but that didn’t seem like the best way to make introductions.

“John Watson?” a voice called above the music.

John spun around to face a girl,  _short, high heels, tight dress, too much lipstick- red number 60,_ and lit up like a Christmas tree. “Mary?” he called out.

The girl came over and they hugged,  _two seconds longer than necessary_  and then Mary pulled back to smile at him.

“Haven’t seen you in ages John, missed you,” she smiled and John smiled back and it hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks-  _they liked each other_. This was one of the few times Sherlock wished he had a normal person’s mind, one that wouldn’t have picked up on that sort of thing for ages.

“Yeah, this is Sherlock,” John said, introducing him. Mary gave him a once-over and grinned.

“He’s cute,” she said, turning her grin on John.

“Promised him a girl,” John admitted. Sherlock was getting frustrated with that phrase.  _Not a promise you have to keep._

“We can do that,” Mary smiled, leaning on John’s arm. “You have a type Sherlock?”

Sherlock allowed himself a glance at John. “Blondes,” he whispered and the three teens laughed.

“Well, I can’t get you a blonde,” Mary laughed. “But I may have- Irene!”

Her yell echoed across the house and suddenly a girl with neat brown hair, perfect lips, and curves that could kill a lesser man, appeared by Mary’s elbow. It was her eyes that caught Sherlock’s attention though. They held the quicksilver flash of intelligence that Sherlock recognized from the mirror. Now, this was interesting.

“Yeah?” she asked, a beer in her hand. Intelligence notwithstanding, she did not look out of place in a party like this.

“This is Sherlock,” Mary introduced and he could  _feel_  Irene look him up and down, stopping on his belt buckle a minute before finishing at his face.

“I like him,” she smiled and reached out on taloned hand to take Sherlock’s arm. “You have a drink yet?”

Sherlock shook his head and she grinned, her grin gave him chills.

“Perfect, let’s go,” she said, leading him towards the back of the house.

“We should-“ John started but Mary held him back.

“Relax, he’s a big boy, let him do his own dirty work,” Mary smiled easily and John felt himself relax in her grip. “Besides,” she whispered, suddenly in his ear, “I want to  _talk_  to you alone.”

John could feel himself growing hot. Sherlock could manage on his own, couldn’t he?

                                                                          …

John wasn’t sure how he ended up in a bed upstairs with Mary, his shirt somewhere in the floor, her hands on his chest. He may have had a few beers by that point and things were a  _little_  fuzzy and Mary was a bit  _distracting_ , her hands running up and down his chest, her mouth on his.

“John,” she moaned softly and John could have died.

The door suddenly burst open and both teens looked up to face a guilty-looking Mike.

“Do you mind, Mike?” John said calmly, trying to ignore the third leg he was rapidly growing.

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just, uh, you know that kid you brought?” Mike stuttered and John shot up.

“What?” he asked.  _Shit_. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, I think, he’s just throwing up in the bathroom is all,” Mike said and John found his shirt on the floor, pulling it on.

“Shit,” he said out loud. “Of course he’s a lightweight, why would I even believe him- Mary?”

Mary sighed at him from the bed and it took everything John had not to damn Sherlock to hell and jump back in. “Go take care of your friend John. See you around?” and the woman was a saint.

“Oh god yes,” John promised and Mary spared him a smile. And then he rushed out of the bedroom and downstairs with Mike.

Sherlock was hunched over the toilet, his thin shoulders sweating themselves through John’s tee. He retched as John entered and John rushed to him, kneeling next to him.

“Sherlock, breathe,” John coaxed and reached out one hand to push back Sherlock’s sweaty black curls from his forehead.

Sherlock looked at him, eyes blown and skin pale and sweaty. “I interrupted you,” he said softly.

“What?” John asked, his hand rubbing Sherlock’s back.

“Lipstick on your neck and mouth- red number 60. Mary, right?” Sherlock managed to get out before he was bent over the toilet again, retching.

“Even when you’re sick, you read me like a book,” John swore, looking at Sherlock with a mix of pity and pride.

“When I was six years old I did an experiment on every tube of lipstick in the house,” Sherlock informed him casually as though they were not hunched around a bowl of his sick. “Learned how to identify lipstick by shade for nearly eight brands- hold on,” he excused and then vomited again. John looked away.

 “How much did you drink?” he checked. Did he need to take Sherlock to some kind of hospital?

“Not sure,” Sherlock said, between gasps. “Lost track after four.”

“Shit,” John swore for the third time that evening. “You said you weren’t a lightweight.”

“Still not sure what that means,” Sherlock laughed and then doubled over.

“Of course, shoulda know. Why didn’t you come get me?” John asked, rubbing Sherlock back. It was sweaty and damp beneath his fingertips but he kept at in and Sherlock seemed to ease back into his hands.

“Didn’t want to interrupt,” Sherlock excused and John could have hit him. He looked so small and  _fragile_  bent over and heaving and John wanted to hold him, make it better somehow.

“I need to get you home,” he said instead, because it was all he could do. “Can you walk?”

Sherlock nodded but John reached an arm under him anyway, holding him up. They stumbled out of the house and John got Sherlock in the car, buckling him in.

“Are you okay to drive?” Sherlock squeezed out.

“I’m better than you,” John reminded him and climbed in, starting the car. They drove away and Sherlock felt himself grow warmer as the music faded and all that was left was silence and John.

“I’m sorry,” John said softly as they drove.

“Not your fault I drank too much,” Sherlock muttered, falling asleep.

“I was supposed to watch you,” John said.

“Not a child,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Still,” John said and Sherlock’s hand suddenly felt  _warm_. He had to look over to believe it, John’s hand on his, John’s eyes never leaving the road.

“Mycroft’s gonna kill me, isn’t he,” John said and Sherlock laughed weakly, his stomach protesting at the effort.

“Probably,” he agreed and John shuddered.

Sherlock could feel his eyes drifting closed and John muttering, “Sleep it off,” before they were pulling up in front of the house and John was helping Sherlock out of the car.

“Up you go,” he ordered, helping Sherlock on the stairs and into his bedroom. Sherlock could feel John’s hands working on his jeans and then his shirt before he was in his pants and being led into bed, John’s hand gentle in his.

“Open,” John ordered and Sherlock opened his mouth to feel John slip a pill inside.

“Ibuprofen,” John explained to Sherlock’s wide eyes. “You’ll thank me tomorrow. One more,” he said and Sherlock caught John’s finger in his lips this time, holding it a minute as John stared at him. Sherlock didn’t mean to, he  _really_ didn’t, but then he sucked, lightly, and John’s eyes blew open.

“You must be really drunk,” John said, taking his finger from Sherlock’s mouth and petting his cheek. “Go to sleep.”

“No,” Sherlock heard himself moan distantly, as though he was someone else. “Stay with me.”

John paused at the door. “I’m shaking,” Sherlock admitted. He  _was_  shaking. Why was he shaking?

“You’re just cold,” John said and came over to fix his blankets. But Sherlock wasn’t tired now, no  _no No._  And the voice in his head that always said _no. Stop,_ was silent now and Sherlock reached out two hands to cup John’s face.

John stared at him, not moving, as Sherlock’s thumb ghosted over his cheekbone. “You promised me my first kiss,” Sherlock said softly as John’s pupils dilated and his breath sped up.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I-“ John stared but he was cut off by Sherlock’s lips on his.  _They’re soft_  was John’s last coherent thought before Sherlock pulled back to look at him.

“Not as messy as you said,” was all Sherlock said before he dived back in again. His tongue ghosted on John’s lips and John felt himself open his mouth, felt Sherlock’s tongue rub against his like fire, felt Sherlock bite his lower lip, felt Sherlock moan softly as their mouths collided again and again and  _again_  before John pulled back shaking.

“Christ,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving Sherlock, his hand coming up to touch his swelling mouth. “We just-“

And then John was gone, the connecting door slammed in between them and Sherlock sunk down into his sheets, unsure of what the hell had just happened.


	7. Make me Cry

Sherlock woke with a pounding in his head, cotton in his mouth, and a sinking feeling in his gut that took him a moment to place.

 _John_  he remembered in a rush.  _I kissed John._

And it had been sinfully good, John’s lips on his. He’d felt warm, warm all over and for a minute everything was  _right_  and he could drown out that voice in his ear that sounded suspiciously like Seb reminding him unnecessarily that he was a rather awkward, crow thing of a boy.

And then John had pulled back and Sherlock had seen in those eyes confusion and  _hate?_  No. He couldn’t hate Sherlock. He couldn’t or Sherlock would- Damn Mycroft. He’d known this would happen. Damn him to hell.

Sherlock stumbled out of bed and downstairs, not even bothering to get dressed past throwing on a dressing gown. The dining hall was empty, breakfast was probably hours ago, but he found John in the gardens, reading under a tree.

 _No other alternative,_ Sherlock reminded himself.  _It’s this or loneliness. And we don’t want that again, do we?_

“John,” he said and John looked up, his face flushing.

“Sherlock, I didn’t see you this morning, I thought we should-“ John stammered but Sherlock cut him off.

”I think it’s best we delete last night,” he said and his voice did not shake. Inside though, his whole  _body_  was shaking and he couldn’t breathe as that rope twisted tighter and tighter.  _Say no, say no, say no._

“Delete?” John asked, confused.

“As though it never happened,” Sherlock said and it  _hurt._  Christ, why did it hurt so much? This was why he avoided emotions because they came along with this, inexplicable pain.

John blinked at him a minute. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Sure. Let’s delete it.”

Sherlock wanted to rage at him. “Good,” he said instead, utterly impassive, his face locked in neutral.

“Good,” John said awkwardly.

Sherlock didn’t look at him. “Well, I have another crime scene I wanted to-“

“What position do I need to be in this time?” John groaned, getting up and Sherlock grinned.

John ended up on the floor of a canoe as it drifted out, Sherlock sitting on one of the benches. John was quiet as Sherlock steepled his fingers and thought but when Sherlock glanced down at him, John would smile and Sherlock would smile back as though his heart wasn’t breaking.

Why wasn’t this  _enough?_

Why wasn’t a John who smiled at him, didn’t call him freak or push him or hit him but  _smiled_  at him and called him a friend, enough?

 _Because I want more,_  Sherlock realized as John’s fingers traced patterns on his ankle.  _And I won’t ever get it._

That night was a forest night, their breaths coming out heavier than usual as they ran. Forest nights were the longest, the farthest distance to travel. Sherlock was properly winded when he thudded to the ground against a tree by the forest edge.

“That’s a good run,” John gasped, and Sherlock didn’t need to turn around to know that John’s face would be flushed, his mouth hanging slightly open, his pupils dilated and his goddamn ocean eyes wide as stars.

“That is the point, isn’t it,” Sherlock snapped and moved to get up.

“No, not yet,” John begged and Sherlock turned. “Let me catch my breath.”

Sherlock let him breath, in and out, before John spoke.  _Predictable_ , Sherlock had known he would but he was surprised by what John  _said._

“I’m sorry, again. For leaving you alone at the party,” John said and Sherlock blinked.

“I am capable of handling myself John,” he said and winced. Of course he wasn’t, he’d gotten so drunk he had to be carried out. The memory of it still made him cringe, made the phantom taste of sick fill his mouth.

“I know,” John said and then, softer, asked, “What happened with Irene?”

What had happened with  _Irene?_  Nothing. They’d talked, she’d laughed at his jokes, eyeing his crotch the whole time, and then she’d tried to kiss him. Twice. He’d pushed her off both times. After the second rebuff, she’d finally sighed.

 _“What’s wrong with you?”_ she asked and he could have sighed himself. Why didn’t people ever ask original questions?

 _“I’m a freak,_ ” he explained and she groaned.

 _“Figured,”_  she said as she got up off the couch _“Just my luck, hu?”_ And then, as she was leaving, the parting shot.  _“Good luck with John.”_ She even sounded like she meant it.

That was when Sherlock had proceeded to get fabulously drunk and where things had gone a little blurry. But all he said to John was,

“She wasn’t my type.”

“Right,” John said and then the kiss must have hurtled itself back into his mind because John let out a small  _Oh_  and said “Right. Why didn’t you say?”

“Most people don’t take it very well,” Sherlock admitted, his eyes never leaving his hands.

“I’m not most people,” John reminded him and Sherlock looked up to find himself locked in his gaze. John had a habit of looking people dead in the eye, he was noticing. It was the kind of gaze you didn’t look away from, unflinching and open.

“Sherlock-“ John said softly but Sherlock was getting up, brushing grass from his pants.

“We really need to-“

“Sherlock,” John said again, firmer, and Sherlock turned around. John was close,  _too close_  and he raised one hand to graze Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock shuddered into the touch, eyes closed, and John said,

“We don’t have to delete it. Not if you don’t want to.”

And for one delicious moment, Sherlock let himself hope. Let himself dream about John holding him like this, kissing him- back against the tree. Letting himself love John.

And then Seb’s voice came back, tauntingly honest.  _You can’t love Sherlock, remember that. Oh, you can try. Get close enough to pretend. But in the end you’ll mess it up. That’s what freaks do, they mess things up. But you already knew that, didn’t you?_

“No,” Sherlock said, forcing himself to move away from that touch as the rope inside him broke into pieces. “We need to.”

And he turned and ran back to the Manor, trying to pretend as if each footstep didn’t feel as though he was stepping on the fractured pieces of his own heart. 


	8. Make me Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that all my chapters seem to end with Sherlock crying. I had to fix that. And now.
> 
> And for all of my fellow masochists who feed on feels, don't worry. This thing isn't over yet.

Sherlock was desperate. Two days had passed since he’d thrown over John’s offer and here he was, lying in bed, fingers working franticly at his temple, humming all sorts of nonsense, desperately trying to-

“What on earth are you doing?”

Sherlock shot up to find Mycroft in his doorway, hands resting against the frame.

“Deleting,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Oh come off it.”

Sherlock gaped at him. Mycroft did not use such… _language._ He shut the door and moved over to the bed, sitting down by Sherlock’s feet.

“We both know you don’t have to go through such _melodramatics_ to delete things Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him. “What’s going on?”

“It won’t go away,” Sherlock admitted and he saw Mycroft’s eyes flicker to the connecting door.

“Ah,” Mycroft said softly and Sherlock hated him. “You did something stupid, didn’t you?”

“Do you want to hear me say it Mycroft? Fine- you were right!” Sherlock nearly shouted, shaking. “Want to hear it again? You were-“

“That’s quite enough,” Mycroft hushed him and Sherlock could remember a time when he thought the sun rose and set on Mycroft. That had been years ago, years before Father had-

“I kissed him,” Sherlock confessed and he saw Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I take it the doctor was not pleased?” Mycroft said softly.

How on earth did Mycroft know John wanted to be a doctor? Obvious- Mycroft knew everything. But he was wrong, wasn’t he? “No,” Sherlock said, just as soft. “He was fine with it.”

Mycroft made a point to look at him and Sherlock found himself continuing. “I told him to delete it. And I’ve been _trying_ Mycroft, but I can’t. I can’t make it go away and it’s eating me _alive_. I just-“

“Sherlock,” Mycroft cut him off and Sherlock looked up. When had his brother gone from being his one and only friend to a man in a suit he no longer liked or understood? And how was he able to shift back, just for a moment, when Sherlock desperately needed him? “You are a Holmes, Sherlock. I expected better from you.”

Sherlock blinked. _Was Mycroft implying…_ “But you were the one who told me not to do anything-“

“I told you not to do anything _stupid,”_ Mycroft chided him. “Go talk to the boy.”

                                                                      …

Sherlock was knocking on the connecting door before he could stop himself and was through seconds before a soft voice called, “Come in.”

“Hey,” John smiled, putting down his book and glancing at his watch. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it? Wasn’t expecting you for another hour-“

“I can’t delete it John,” Sherlock confessed in a rush and John looked at him, puzzled.

“You can’t what?” he asked and Sherlock sighed. This was hard enough as it was.

“ _Delete it_ John, I can’t delete the memory. I know I told you I would and I’ve been _trying_ but it won’t go away and I-“ Sherlock burst forth but John just laughed.

“You can’t actually delete memories Sherlock,” he said, an easy grin filling his face but Sherlock wasn’t done.

“ _I_ can John. _I_ can delete memories, facts, trivia, anything,” he explained, starting to pace franticly. “Ask me who the Prime Minister is. Go on, ask,” he demanded.

“Who’s the Prime Minister?” John complied, starting to look scared.

“I don’t know!” Sherlock practically yelled. “I deleted it because it’s useless! I have complete and utter mastery over every aspect of my body John, and that includes my brain. But this- this I just can’t-“

“Sherlock,” John said softly and Sherlock looked at him. “Come here.”

Sherlock stared at him a moment before John patted the stretch of bed next to him. “Here,” he said again and this time Sherlock came over, settling himself into a cross-legged position facing John.

“Sherlock, why did you kiss me?” John asked and Sherlock blinked at him.

“Because I wanted to,” he admitted and he heard John take in a shaky breathe.

“So why do you want to delete it so badly?” John prompted and Sherlock couldn’t look at John, had to pick a spot on the wall just shy of John’s left shoulder, as he spoke.

“I don’t _have_ friends John. Never have. And you- I don’t know if we’re friends or if you just tolerate me but I’m okay with that, I’m okay with _any_ of it and I can’t lose it John. Not now that I know there’s something more.”

“You berk,” John laughed softly and Sherlock finally did look at him, face crinkled as he grinned. “Do you think I pretend to be a corpse for just anyone? Course we’re friends, idiot.”

“Do you get it though?” Sherlock begged, his eyes latching onto those oceans. “Do you get why I can’t ruin this? Why I can’t afford to make a mistake? You ruined me John.”

John didn’t look offended, just tilted his head because he knew Sherlock would explain and Sherlock did.

“A fish doesn’t know it’s in water until it’s not,” Sherlock said, his eyes pleading. “I never realized just how _alone_ I was until you- talked to me. Payed attention to me. And that’s why we can’t do this John, because you’ll hate me. You can’t love me John, I’m not loveable and when you realize that, you’ll leave altogether and then I’ll be alone again, but this time I’ll _know_ I’m alone and it will be so much worse.”

John reached up and moved two hands to hold Sherlock’s face, all hard angles and drawn lines. “Who told you you’re not loveable?’ he demanded and Sherlock’s scared by what he sees in those eyes.

“I didn’t have to be told,” he said, but he was anyway, by children on the playground and adults in doctor’s coats calling themselves psychologists. “I just know.”

John just stared at him a moment, mouth drawn, and Sherlock thought he was about to say something when suddenly John’s mouth was on his and he was kissing Sherlock with everything he had. Sherlock was limp for a moment and in that moment he found himself on his back, John straddling his hips, hands on either side of his head as John’s mouth lowered down again and again, working his bottom lip in his teeth, kissing the creases in the corners of his mouth, rubbing himself against him with just the right amount of friction to make Sherlock’s eyes widen.

“What are you doing?” he gasped out.

“Getting my strenuous exercise,” John said, not a bit out of breath, _curse him_. “Some genius scientist said it would get rid of my nightmares.”

“Heard that scientist was a bit of a bastard,” Sherlock tried to say but it came out breathless as John’s crotch rubbed against his and _Christ_ how did that feel so good?

“He is,” John said smiling against Sherlock’s mouth. “Lucky for him though, I’ve always liked bad boys.”

John rubbed back once more and _damn_ Sherlock can’t _Christ_ handle much _Jesus_ more of this.

“Stop,” he ordered and John did, looking concerned. “Too much…” he struggled to explain and John laughed.

“Ah, overstimulation much?” John asked and Sherlock nodded meekly. “Don’t worry, it gets better with practice.”

_Practice? Is John honestly suggesting more of this?_ But Sherlock doesn’t have long to wonder before John is getting off the bed and moving towards his drawers.

“Out,” he ordered Sherlock and for a second Sherlock was terrified but then John shot him a grin and Sherlock felt his insides warm, felt his whole body warm.

“I need to get changed for our run,” he said, pulling out sweatpants, _my sweatpants,_ before winking and Sherlock. “Unless you want to watch?”

Sherlock turned red and shook his head, running into his room and closing the connecting door. He could hear John laughing as he lay panting against the frame and let himself smile.

Perhaps Mycroft was as much a genius as everyone said. 


	9. Sing me your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's another nice one before a full stop at feels city. 
> 
> As always, the support is absolutely amazing. You guys make me keep writing. <3

Sherlock woke up the next morning and, for a moment, fear gripped him as he thought it was all just a dream. But then John’s kiss from last night rolled back to him with their kisses by the lake, Sherlock’s back against a tree, as John taught him how to turn his head, where to put his hands, how to rock back and forth until they’d both been dizzy.

Sherlock was  _happy._  Victoria Holmes didn’t quite know what to make of the change in her youngest son, who now walked as though he was on clouds, who slept and ate without being asked, who  _smiled_  at her when she caught his eye at the breakfast table. But she knew it had something to do with the Watson boy, the two were never very far apart- whispering to each other at the table, taking boats out on the lake and keeping the house awake with their late-night talks in the den.

But of course the universe didn’t like Sherlock to be happy for long, and Sherlock knew it was disaster brewing when Victoria announced at breakfast,

“We’re going to the Opera tonight.”

John looked over to Sherlock’s mother, his pinkie locked with Sherlock’s under the table, their feet pushing teasingly at each other.

“Which one?” Cynthia asked, smiling at her friend.

“La Bohème,” Mycroft said, proud of himself for deducing.

“Obvious,” Sherlock whispered to John. He knew how John loved to hear his deductions, his eyes would light up like lights and his mouth would crinkle as he tried not to laugh. “They’ve been advertising for weeks, it’s just in town, and it’s a love story. Mummy  _adores_  love stories.”

“I’ve never been to the opera,” John confessed, blushing slightly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll translate for you,” Sherlock promised and John’s eyes widened.

“You speak Italian?” he asked in wonder. It was just too  _easy_  to amaze John.

“Among other languages,” Sherlock smiled and John looked at him like he had just told him he’d  _written_ the damn opera.

“You’re a genius,” he said and Sherlock tried not to preen.

“So I’ve been told,” he said modestly.

“Well, you deserve to hear it again,” John said and Sherlock was positive this opera had been the best idea Mummy had had in a while.

He was utterly wrong of course.

                                                                                    …

They arrived at the theater twenty minutes before curtain. John was tugging self-consciously at his button-down. It had been the fanciest thing he’d brought but stood to nothing next to the suits and gowns of everyone in the hall.

“You look fine,” Sherlock whispered to him after the fifth tug.

“I didn’t realize it’d be so fancy,” he confessed, glancing around.

“You saw Mycroft and me put on suits,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Yeah but you guys always wear suits,” John pointed out and Sherlock laughed.

“Well isn’t this a nice surprise?” a voice drawled and suddenly Sherlock wanted nothing more than to die, right there in the theater.

“Hello Sebastian,” he said politely, turning around.

Sebastian was standing by the far corner, flanked by his two favorite sadists Henry and Sam.

“Always a pleasure, freak,” Sebastian called. “Why don’t you come over here and say hi?”

“Friends of yours?” John asked, his voice dangerously low.

“John please-“ Sherlock started but John wasn’t even looking at him, just clenching his fists and glaring at the boys in the corner.

“No, no, I’d love to meet them, sure we’d get along  _great_ -“ he started but Sherlock cut him off.

“John please,” he begged, grabbing John’s wrists and locking eyes. “John I go to school with them, I have to live with them for another two years, just please. Let me handle this.”

“If they so much as touch you-“ John started to threaten but Sherlock shook his head.

“Don’t worry, they won’t,” he promised.  _They don’t need to._

He walked over to the boys in the corner, conscious of how much his heart sped up, how sweaty his palms felt, how every step felt like a step to his death.

“Henry, Sam,” Sherlock nodded, once he’d reached them.

“Who’s that, freak?” Sebastian asked, glancing over at John who was pointedly not looking.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock said and the boys laughed.

“Friend? Oh, that’s rich, we both know you don’t have friends,” Sebastian reminded him coolly.

“You’re right, I don’t have friends,” Sherlock said softly, not looking down. “Just the one.”

Sebastian eyed John a minute. “Just who is he anyway? And what is he wearing?”

“He’s-“ Sherlock started but then Sebastian laughed out loud.

“Does he work for you? Is that it? Did you bring your  _help_ to the theater so you wouldn’t be alone?” Sebastian guessed and he practically roared with laughter.

“Great detective work, lovely deductions,” Sherlock snarled. “Now let me have a turn. You’re here because your mother wants you out of the house while she fucks your neighbor while your dad’s on a business trip. You’re here,” he said, turning to Sam, “because you want to look cultured for someone, girl maybe. Don’t bother, your lack of a brain speaks volumes. And you,” he turned to Henry, “are here because you actually  _enjoy_ opera- but you’d never say it out loud, afraid you’d look queer.”

Sebastian stared at Sherlock a minute before saying coldly, “I don’t know how much you’re paying him freak. But enjoy it while you can because soon enough he’s going to realize no amount of money is worth putting up with you.”

The bell rang in the lobby and people began making their way into the theater. Sebastian spared Sherlock one last glance before smiling at him in a way that turned Sherlock’s stomach and heading inside.

Sherlock was alone for a minute before John’s hands were on his wrist and he was being dragged through the lobby and up into an abandoned bathroom.

“John the show-“ Sherlock started but he was suddenly pressed up against a stall, John’s hands on his face as he kissed him roughly, biting down hard enough to draw blood, and Sherlock moaned.

“I wanted to hit them so badly,” John muttered against his mouth, tongue working dizzying circles against Sherlock’s. “I had to hold myself back the whole time.”

“John-“ Sherlock said softly and John drew back, a worried look immediately crossing his face.

“Too rough?” he asked, his fingers coming up to rub Sherlock’s swelling lip.

“Why do they hate me?” Sherlock asked softly, surprising himself. He hadn’t expected to say that at all, to let out that much vulnerability. It was the situation of it all, this, here with John on the cusp of something larger than both of them and John’s eyes looked damp enough to flood.

“Because you’re better than them,” John said immediately, rubbing Sherlock’s knuckles with his thumb. “Because they know that you will rule the world or do something equally amazing and all they’ll ever have is a desk job and a drunk wife.”

“Why don’t you hate me?” Sherlock murmured and John hugged him with a tenderness that made Sherlock want to bury his face in John’s shoulder and sob. He didn’t, of course. Holmeses did not cry in public. Or anywhere for that matter but this-

“Because I know you’re just as human as everyone else,” John said and Sherlock did cry, with John pausing to kiss the corners of his eyes as they overflowed. It should have been shameful, Sherlock hadn’t cried like this since he’d been small, but with John is somehow wasn’t. He hadn’t realized how much of John he’d been holding carefully, like a bomb about to go off, until John promised him he wasn’t in danger of losing it.

Opera music began to drift into the bathroom from a set of speakers in the celling corners and Sherlock reached up to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

“We should go,” he said and John nodded.

“In a minute,” he promised, looking at Sherlock and Sherlock felt his world flip. “I have something to do first.”

They began to kiss again, softer this time, and Sherlock felt like he was melting, felt like he was fading into John and suddenly John’s mouth left his and found a spot at his collarbone.

“I want them to look at you and know you’re not unlovable,” John murmured against his cold skin. “I want them to have proof that somebody cares about you.”

“What are you-“ Sherlock started but stopped as John took his skin in his mouth and started to work at it, biting it gently and sucking hard enough to leave a bruise- purple and mouth-shaped.

“ _John_ ” Sherlock breathed and then John dropped in front of him, hands working at his trousers.

“John, are you-“ Sherlock couldn’t finish that thought, couldn’t finish  _any_  thought, as John’s fingers unbuttoned his suit bottoms and drew them down, letting them wrinkle on the bathroom floor. Sherlock profoundly did not care.

John looked up at Sherlock through heavy lids. “I have to confess,” he whispered, a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?” Sherlock asked shakily and he could have killed himself for how clueless he sounded.

But John wasn’t listening but instead biting him bottom lip thoughtfully, looking Sherlock over. “It can’t be that different from this end,” he mused to the sound of opera in the background. “Let me just-“

“ _Jesus_ ,” Sherlock started and then stopped as John took him in his mouth and then everything was just shades of brilliant color and Sherlock couldn’t get air into his lungs as his fingers grasped on to the edges of the stall.

It was like trying to hold on to a blurry picture as things started to fade in increments, leaving only John and his fingers in John’s hair and his mouth and the sounds Sherlock was trying not to make, moaning softly around every syllable.

And then his peripheral vision went and Sherlock gasped out. “John, I’m gonna- I’m going to-“

“Hm,” John hummed around him, not looking up. “Quietly please. I’m enjoying the opera.”

And then everything went white and Sherlock collapsed as Mimi asked Rodolfo for a match and John kissed him quietly as Italian filled the bathroom and Sherlock heard himself whispering,

_“Ti amo.”_


	10. Cry me Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a chapter until someone cries at the end! I promised feels and I deliver- don't you worry.

They were supposed to re-enact a double homicide with the help of a reluctant Harry. But then it had rained so hard the lake had started to overflow, so they’d shelved that plan and opted for what Sherlock thought was a better one.

They were lying in John’s bed, Sherlock’s head on John’s chest and John’s fingers running patterns through Sherlock’s hair as rain pounded outside the Manor windows.

“When did you realize you were bisexual?” Sherlock asked clinically, tracing patterns on John’s stomach through his shirt. It bothered Sherlock how many layers of clothes there were between them but he wasn’t going to be the first to remove anything. John made all the first moves, it was safer that way.

“I’m not,” John said simply.

Sherlock looked up at him with raised eyebrows and John grinned.

“Really,” he laughed. “I’m not, nor have ever been, attracted to any other man beside you. You’re just an exception,” he said, his fingers running lighting paths of fire on Sherlock’s skull. In a distant way, that worried Sherlock. Being an exception was hard work; it meant you were not someone’s comfort zone. It meant you might one day get chalked up to teenage experimentation and discarded. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.

“Always have been,” Sherlock grumbled and John laughed again.

“What about you?” John asked, looking down at him.

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “I knew I was gay when I was nine years old.”

“That must have been hard,” John sympathized and Sherlock found himself struggling closer.

“Mycroft figured it out first. Told me not to tell anyone. When you dorm at an all-boys school, it’s not exactly easy if your roommates know you’re gay. Especially when they don’t like you much to begin with,” Sherlock added with a laugh instead of a sob.

“So you never told  _anyone?_ ” John asked in wonderment.

“You’re the only person who knows beside Mycroft,” Sherlock told him. “And Mummy, probably. Never told her, but she has a way of figuring things out. She is a Holmes after all.”

“I like that,” John smiled, ghosting fingers up Sherlock’s arm. “Less competition.”

“Like there was ever any competition,” Sherlock said, gazing at John with  _love? No. Adoration maybe._

“You just want a blowjob,” John goaded and Sherlock blushed. He had grown rather fond of those and he did believe people should do what they were good at. And John was  _exceptional_  at blowjobs.

Sherlock looked up and realized how peaceful they were, how quiet the room was with their scattered breathing and soft touches and he turned to face John properly.

“John-“ he started but John cut him off.

“You’re gonna ask about my dad again, aren’t you?” John said and Sherlock could only nod.

“Okay.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Okay?” he repeated stupidly, not expecting it.

“Okay,” John said again. “But I’m going to need alcohol.”

                                …

They found a bottle of Scotch in the kitchen cabinets and brought it upstairs, not even bothering with glasses, to Sherlock’s room- the room with a lock.

They settled on the floor, John leaning back against Sherlock’s bed and Sherlock on his back, eyes gazing at the ceiling, making a point not to look at John. He’d heard that helped. He hoped it would.

“You need to understand,” John started softly, almost silent against the heavy rain. “My dad was my hero, all through elementary school. He taught me to kick a ball, took me for ice-cream, nursed me through my first crush.”

Sherlock didn’t remember his father doing any of those things with him but he was not surprised. The Holmeses were not overly affectionate men, himself included.

“But then, when I was about twelve, he started drinking,” John confessed. “Well it was only after he lost his job, till he found a new one. But then he didn’t and he started drinking more and more and-“

John stopped to breathe and Sherlock reached out a hand to stroke his ankle lightly. He felt John relax against the touch and then he went on.

“He was like Jekyll and Hyde, you know? When he was sober, he was dad. But when he was drunk…” John glanced away. “He had these moods, sometimes he’d just cry for hours. But usually he got angry, really angry. And then we all knew to hide.”

“You weren’t mugged,” Sherlock said softly and it’s not a question but John shakes his head anyway. “What happened?”

“He went after Harry,” John said, his fingers working at each other. “She’s tough, you know, but she gets scared. He had this broken bottle in his hand and I lunged and it just… got stuck.”

“But you told everyone you were mugged,” Sherlock said.

“Had to,” John said, his voice steady. “Otherwise, there would’ve been a case, they would’ve made me testify against my own dad. The nurses at the hospital could tell a stab wound from a bottle wound and they kept asking questions. But I just stuck to the mugging story and then Mum starting agreeing….” He blinked. “They let it alone after that.”

“When did it happen?” Sherlock prompted, and they both knew he wasn't talking about the stabbing anymore.

“Four months ago,” John said. “He’d been acting strange for days, worse than usual. Then he attacked Mum…” John wanted to stop, wanted to leave it right there. But he was  _trusting_  Sherlock. That meant something. “It wasn’t bad or anything. But the next morning we found him. He said in his note he didn’t trust himself not to hurt us anymore, no matter where he went.”

“You blame yourself.”

“Course I blame myself,” John said, turning on the boy.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sherlock said pointlessly.

“Doesn’t matter,” John sighed. “None of it matters. I will always blame myself. That’s how these things work.” He drank the whiskey like it was medicine meant to fix him.

“I have his name you know,” John said softly and Sherlock looked up.

“John is the most common name in the Western Hemisphere,” Sherlock noted but John didn’t care.

“It’s  _his_  name,” he said again, staring at the bottle in his hands. “I’m going to end up just like him.”

“No you’re not,” Sherlock said, no doubt in his voice.

“I am though,” he said, looking at Sherlock through ocean eyes drained dry. “Me and Harry both. Just like him.”

Sherlock crawled over to him, wrapping his arms around John’s folded legs, resting his head on his knees. “You are the best man I’ve ever known, John Watson.”

“So was he,” John said and then he began to cry, silent tears that fell like offerings in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock shifted to hold him properly, legs wrapped around him as John sobbed on his chest and Sherlock murmured promises and truths in his hair.


	11. Hold me Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys I love you. Like actual love. You are all the reason I update so frequently. Love.

They took a rowboat out to the middle of the lake, John content to just stare at Sherlock as he rowed them deeper out before finally asking,

“So what murder are we re-enacting today? Because I’m not a fan of one that involves me at the bottom of the lake.”

“None,” Sherlock said, surprised John hadn’t figured it out. “I just thought it’d be nice.”

“It is,” John smiled at him and that smile was worth all the pains in his arms. “I’m just surprised is all. You don’t do romantic things.”

Sherlock blushed. He knew he was rather  _lacking_  in the relationship area but John never pointed out before.

“Not that that’s a problem,” John said quickly, taking Sherlock’s hand. “It’s just you. I wouldn’t want to change you.”

“You make me want to change,” Sherlock said honestly and John just squeezed his hand, looking out at the lake. It sometimes blew his mind how beautiful it was out here, nothing like the tiny apartment he shared with Mum and Harry, just blue as far as the eye could see and trees grown strong by real soil and not London concrete.

“John,” Sherlock prompted softly and John tore his eyes away from the lake and looked at him. “You never ask about my father.”

“What?” John asked, drawing shapes on the inside of Sherlock’s palm that made the younger boy dizzy.

“I asked about yours all the time,” Sherlock noted. “Why don’t you ever ask about mine?”

“I figured you’d tell me when you wanted me to know,” John said simply.

Sherlock stared at him.  _Looks are so deceiving_ , he thought. John looked so ordinary, short blonde hair, wiry muscles and big blue ocean eyes that swallowed unsuspecting sailors. And yet…

“How are you so patient with me?” Sherlock asked softly, never letting go of John’s hand.

John sighed. “You learn a lot of things from a drunk parent. How to wait. How to expect very little. How to be happy with what you get.” He looked up at Sherlock, smiling. “You make it easy. You give so much.”

“No I don’t,” Sherlock said honestly. “I’m cold. I never initiate. I can’t even… reciprocate,” he struggled classily.

“You think I’d leave you because you can’t give a blowjob?” John laughed and Sherlock blushed crimson. They’d tried once, but for the first time in Sherlock’s life he’d been an utter disaster at something and John had very sweetly pulled him off and promised they’d practice. “Sherlock, you are the most brilliant man I know. I may be dating your body, but I  _adore_  your mind.”

They never said  _I love you._  Sherlock had expected to hear it back after the opera but it appeared John really didn’t know any Italian and he’d never said it again. So John never said it in fear of spooking Sherlock and Sherlock never initiated. That was a rule.

John kissed him instead, long and slow, and Sherlock let himself relax into it. Kissing John should have been something easy and relaxing after so many times, like putting on an old pair of clothes. But for some reason it never was. It stayed like fire, like the rapid heat that pooled in Sherlock’s stomach, as John’s tongue made lazy circles against his own and his hands came up to pull at the black curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock was getting rapidly better, he knew that, as his own fingers dug crescent moons in John’s hips and John gasped into his open mouth. _Tiny circles with the thumbs_  he reminded himself and John moaned appreciatively as Sherlock drew patterns with his fingers, drew ships and stars and pirates off their course.

When Sherlock pulled back from the kiss, John smiled at him blissfully. “Nice work,” he laughed and Sherlock smiled back. The internet had been surprising helpful regarding kissing. Not so much regarding blowjobs.

John climbed down to stretch out against the bottom of the boat and Sherlock followed, fitting himself under John’s arm and against his chest. Sherlock was the taller boy by far and yet this was the position they always took. John was simply too much of a nurturer. Sherlock assumed his usual task of drawing pictures on John’s side and John laughed.

“One day you have to draw those pictures on paper so I can see them properly,” he told Sherlock and Sherlock looked up. That was as good an opening as he was ever going to get.

“He drew a lot, my father,” he said and John never faltered in his breathing against Sherlock’s ear. “We still have the canvasses upstairs in the attic somewhere.”

John didn’t say a word, didn’t prompt, and Sherlock realized he wanted to tell John the story, tell him all of the stories. He  _trusted_  John. That meant something.

“He was a lot like me. That’s what everyone says. Mycroft’s followed in his footsteps the most, he worked at the UN, but he was most like me. Cold, calculating, analytical. Easily bored. Bit headstrong.”

John laughed gently underneath him and Sherlock felt himself relax. “I never saw him much, he was always busy. Most of my stories about him I got from Mycroft. There’s this one story he liked to tell,” Sherlock started and it came back to them, the lilt to Mycroft’s voice as he told it, the way his eyes would gaze at Sherlock as though he could see him growing younger, young enough for the pram.

“He came to me when I was crying once. I didn’t cry a lot as a baby, all the Au Pairs loved me. Hated me as a toddler, but they loved me as a baby. But this time I was crying and Mycroft says he came right up to my pram and whispered something in my ear. And it was like a faucet. I just turned off.”

“What did he say?” John asked, voice soft.

“Mycroft didn’t hear,” Sherlock said but John just chuckled.

“But you know, don’t you?” he prompted and Sherlock did know. Of course he knew. His memory was hardly eidetic like Mycroft’s but this was the sort of thing one didn’t just forget.

“He said,  _Caring is not an advantage._  It’s the Holmes family motto,” Sherlock explained. “Well, not our official one, not the one of the crest-“

“You guys have a crest?” John stopped and Sherlock ignored him.

“But it’s the one we all say. Even Mummy, even though she just married into the Holmes family. He taught it to her. She used to whisper it sometimes when we played Chess, as she killed my King,” Sherlock told him.

“That’s an awful motto,” John said honestly and Sherlock found himself agreeing.

“It’s a bit ironic really,” Sherlock said and John hushed underneath him. “We all say it, and yet we all care about each other. Mummy used to say it to me as she tucked me in at night, and then she’d kiss my forehead.”

“Maybe it’s only for other people,” John suggested and Sherlock shot him a withering look.

“John, I am currently on top of you,” he noted and John laughed, the vibrations rumbling against Sherlock’s back.

“He left us,” Sherlock said, once John’s laughs had subsided. “Wasn’t even that emotional. Just packed up his bags and left. Mummy didn’t even cry.”

“How old were you?” John asked.

“Seven,” Sherlock said and John hissed.

“Christ, that’s hard,” he said, holding Sherlock close.

“I wasn’t particularly distraught,” Sherlock excused. “I didn’t really understand it till I was eight and by then I had discovered how to use an electron microscope. And then there was the Carl Powers case and I finally figured out what I was best at.”

John was silent for a moment. “Sherlock, you can’t just fill your heart with science and think it’s enough.”

“Up until now it had always been enough,” Sherlock admitted and John let him burrow deeper.

“Sherlock,” John started and then stopped, taking a breath. “Sherlock,” he tried again and Sherlock looked at him full on, unflicnhing. “I will never leave you, you know that.”

 _No I don’t,_ he wanted to tell him.  _I don’t know that. And you can’t know that either._ “My father started a whole family with my mother before he realized he wanted to leave her,” Sherlock said softly. They were just teenagers and this was crazy, it was lunacy. Sherlock could’ve sited a thousand articles and blog posts promising summer love never lasted but here, in the middle of this bubble they’d both crafted together, anything seemed possible.

“I wish I’d known you as a child,” John said suddenly and Sherlock had to blink at him. “I wish I could’ve known you whenever it was that someone put this ridiculous idea in your head that you’re not worth anybody’s time.”

“If people say something enough times you start to believe them.” Sherlock confessed and John shuddered against his back.

“But people are idiots, aren’t they?” he prompted and Sherlock laughed.

 _I’m laughing_  he reminded his heart.  _Stop hurting so much._

“I imagine that had I waited other ten years to meet you, I would be a very different person,” Sherlock ruminated.  _Harder probably. And meaner. Colder. More mechanical._

“Lucky for us, right?” John grinned against his head and Sherlock realized he has no idea. John had no idea just what he’d done.

“I want to show you something,” Sherlock said and he struggled up.

“Sure,” John smiled at him but stopped at the look on Sherlock’s face. He sat silent as they rowed back and tied the boat at the dock and didn’t touch Sherlock as they walked back to the house and up into Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock didn’t look at John as he unscrewed a post from his bed,  _a much better hiding place_  and took out a sheet of paper. He handed the list to John wordlessly and John took it, reading it quickly.

“Sherlock-“ he started, his words choked but Sherlock wasn’t done with show and tell. He reached back into the bedpost and took out a small bag and a needle.

“Calmest way to die,” he said, his voice utterly steady.

John picked up the bag, turning it over in his hands. “We’re flushing this down the toilet,” he said, making an effort not to shake.

“No,” Sherlock said, taking it back from John’s hands. “I can get more, that won’t do anything. I like to keep it though. Remind myself-“

“Remind yourself what Sherlock? That you made a list of ways to kill yourself?” John wanted to scream but he kept his voice down, shaking with the effort.

“That I’m a different person now,” Sherlock said and John dropped the list, letting it flutter to the ground like any old harmless piece of paper and not the thing that almost took Sherlock from him.

“You’re an idiot,” he whispered, running, and he was holding Sherlock in his arms tight enough to break him, tight enough to snap his skinny arms and prominent ribs and Sherlock felt absolutely all right.

“You saved me John,” he told the older boy, his voice finally shaking. “You’ll be a great doctor.”

John kissed him and the kiss wasn’t sexual or even sensual. It was ownership, plain and simple, a stamp that read  _Property of John Watson. If found, please return. Do not feed._

”I will never leave you if you promise never to leave me,” John swore and Sherlock believed him despite no supporting evidence, despite logic running to the contrary, despite everything he knew about the world and everything it'd ever promised him.

“I promise,” he said and he let his mind delete the list, let it delete everything that didn’t matter until there was enough space in his mind for John to have his own room, his own floor,  _up to half of my kingdom._

“I promise,” he repeated, forgetting for a moment that he abhorred repetition and the dinner bell rang but they both ignored it. They weren’t hungry. 


	12. Make me Kneel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never let it be said that all I do is make you guys cry. Occasionally there are sexytimes. The Nghhhs before the angst if you know what I mean ;)

He’d been thinking about it since the opera. Obsessing over it really. John never pushed and it was driving Sherlock mental just how  _nice_  John was being about the whole thing. He’d sat through Sherlock’s terrible attempt with just a grimace and since then hadn’t even bothered to ask. It wasn’t  _right_  and it certainly wasn’t fair.

Sherlock paced, wearing a small hole in the carpet in front of the connecting door, before finally striding in. John never locked it and there he sat, his tee-shirt sticking to his damp skin from the shower, his nose deep in his book.

“John?” Sherlock called hesitantly from the doorway, his heart pounding in his chest.

John looked up from his book. He’d been reading that book the whole summer.  _Note: ask John what that book is. No- better idea- deduce instead. Now what would take John a whole month to read?_

“Yes Sherlock?” John said, snapping him back to reality.

“I would like to…” Sherlock didn’t know how to say it, “reciprocate.”

John stared at him as though he’d suddenly grown two heads. “You want me to teach you how to give a blowjob?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, turning red. “No, I mean… yes. Yes, I want to-“

John put the book down gently and stood up. “Come here.”

Sherlock took the two steps needs to reach John and John kissed him carefully.

“Are you sure? We could just kiss if you want,” John offered but Sherlock was shaking his head.

“I want to,” he said, sure of himself for once. “Besides, I figure it’s a skill I should invest in learning.”

John laughed at that, his laugh easing the tension that had filled the room after Sherlock’s odd request. “Get a pillow,” he instructed.

“For what?” Sherlock asked, honestly puzzled. Was he supposed to bite it?

“For your knees,” John explained and Sherlock just eyed him.

“You don’t use a pillow,” he pointed out.

“We’re gonna be here awhile,” John speculated and Sherlock took a pillow from the bed and set it down in front of John’s feet.

“Now kneel,” John chuckled at Sherlock’s face and Sherlock did, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest.  _Why are you so scared? You’ve jumped in front of moving traffic. This is statistically less dangerous._

“It would help if my pants were off,” John reminded him and Sherlock flushed.  _This requires a ridiculous amount of concentration._  He quickly unbuttoned John’s jeans and pulled them down where they were quickly joined by John’s pants.

“Now say hello,” John said straight faced and Sherlock couldn’t help laughing, one dry chuckle.

“Okay here’s what you need to know,” John explained softly as he helped Sherlock’s hands find his hips and settle. “It’s all about pressure. Trying hollowing your cheeks if you can. Keep your tongue moving at all times. And above all- no teeth. For any reason whatsoever.”

“You use teeth sometimes,” Sherlock pointed out, his fingers drawing their usual pictures and John’s pupils dilated despite his even tone.

“Because you’re a kinky bastard and you like a bit of pain. I do not,” John said and Sherlock filed that away for reference.

“Pressure, tongue, no teeth. Anything else?” Sherlock asked, looking up and John nearly lost it.

“Sherlock,” he struggled out, trying to keep steady. “Are you sure you want to do this? You don’t need to feel like you- Ngghh,” John rasped as Sherlock’s mouth wrapped around him and he lost all air in his lungs.

“Bad?” Sherlock asked, quickly sliding off and John glared at him.

“Don’t you dare stop,” he ordered and Sherlock listened. He really was an incredibly quick study.

John let his fingers rest hesitantly against Sherlock’s head and then Sherlock hummed and John’s back twitched and he couldn’t help tugging against Sherlock’s black curls.

“Good,” he muttered, his body flooding with pleasure. “Great, you’re doing perfect. Now move your tongue-  _oh god,_ ” he moaned as Sherlock’s tongue, generally reserved for the scathing of small children, idiots, and Mycroft, made John’s nerve endings light on fire.

John dug the balls of his feet into the floor to keep from thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth and then Sherlock went deeper and John  _moaned_ , raw and loud, and Sherlock smiled around him.

Sherlock gagged suddenly and John managed to choke out, “Thumb. Squeeze your left thumb,” and Sherlock did, humming in surprise as he suppressed his gag reflex.

“That’s incredibly useful, where did you learn that?” he asked, coming off with a pop and John could have screamed.

“Not  _now_  Sherlock,” he begged and Sherlock blushed.

“Sorry, right,” he said flustered and took John back in, that tiny pink mouth stretched out so sinfully just for him and the image alone drove John to the edge.

 _Sherlock Holmes, teenage genius, armature detective and aspiring pirate is on his knees for me,_  John realized and that was it.

“Sherlock, I’m gonna come,” he got out, his brain flashing warning signals as the technicians at his various brain stations put on seat belts and shut everything down.

Sherlock looked up at him from under heavy lids and made no move to get off. John groaned and then gave in. He was vaguely aware he was saying Sherlock’s name as he orgasmed, and it hit Sherlock’s ears like music. No one had ever said his name like that before, splintered and broken as though it were the most beautiful thing they knew, and he could’ve kissed John.

There was something _semen, you utter idiot_ , flooding his mouth and he had not been prepared for this part. He choked, too much at once, and tried vainly to swallow. He got most of it down, an awful flavor that he’d have to experiment with later, but some ran down his chin and neck. He wiped it off with the sleeve of his shirt and made a note to practice swallowing large amounts of liquid at once.

He helped John settle on the floor and propped the pillow against the bed and John’s back, cushioning him. After a moment, John’s eyes fluttered open and Sherlock suddenly understood what the bloody poets he’d been forced to read at school meant when they talked about swimming in someone’s eyes- he knew they’d be warm and soft like velvet.

“You are brilliant,” John smiled, reaching up a hand to rest against Sherlock’s cheek.

“So they tell me,” he smiled back, ridiculously smug despite the white stains forming on his sleeve.

“They don’t know the half of it,” John grinned lewdly. “Help me pull my trousers up.”

Sherlock did, his fingers working gently at the button and John snuggled up against him, his arm lounged against Sherlock’s stomach.

“Give me a minute, I’ll return the favor,” John muttered against Sherlock’s shirt.

“No need,” Sherlock said into his hair. “I took care of it before I came in.”

John was awake now. “You had a wank right next door while I was reading?”

“I wanted to be able to concentrate fully,” Sherlock explained.

“ _Jesus,_ ” John muttered, his pupils getting wide at the mental image, even though it was much too soon.

“I thought about you if that helps,” Sherlock said softly, kissing John’s forehead.

“ _While I was bloody reading,_ ” John murmured and Sherlock looked at him confused.

“Is that not okay?” he asked, worried.

“Only if you don’t let me watch,” John told him and Sherlock felt his ears go pink at the look in John’s eyes.

“Noted for future reference,” he whispered, his voice suddenly gone, and John laughed softly, sitting up.

“So,” Sherlock asked as John adjusted them to their usual positions, settling Sherlock against his chest. “Are we even?”

“Sherlock, relationships aren’t scorecards. You don’t have to be  _even_ ,” John nudged him, settling his hands in Sherlock’s hair.

“Yes, but if there was a score card hypothetically,” Sherlock tried again, “would we be even?”

“Well,” John said seriously, “I do have quite a few of these on you.”

“True,” Sherlock noted, and then shot John the kind of grin that had the technicians in his brain forgetting they were satisfied for the next year and a half. “Well we ought to get started on fixing that right now, don’t you think?”


	13. Give me Reason

They didn’t hear the doorbell ring, why would they? That’s not their department. But the maid called up,

“Master Sherlock! Door for you,” and they ran downstairs.

The man in the mansion hallway was tall and well built in a black jacket and hair just starting to gray. He took in the two teenagers and his body shifted, leaning in to talk down as all adults do when they talk to children.

“Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“Yes?” Sherlock countered, arms folding against his thin chest covered in a gray tee-shirt  _John’s tee-shirt_  and it hung loose on him.

“Inspector Greg Lestrade, NSY,” the man introduced himself and Sherlock visibly brightened.

“Excellent, I was just about to send another letter, I figured out the Crepsly case. Save myself a stamp,” he said cheerfully but the inspector didn’t smile back.

“Is there somewhere we could talk?” he asked and Sherlock eyed him carefully.

“Yeah, the den,” John put in and both men turned to look at him, still hovering on the stairs. “It’s empty,” he said, flushing, and they make their way over, closing the door behind them.

Sherlock settled on a chair and the inspector took the one across for him. John followed in silently but strongly, taking the seat on the couch behind Sherlock, posed to defend.

“Sherlock right?” the inspector makes sure, taking in his height and age.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock snapped, impatient. “Wait here a moment, I have the letter upstairs-“

“That’s why I’m here,” Lestrade sighed, wearied. “You need to stop sending letters to the Met.”

Sherlock paused, and John couldn’t see his face but he knew what his eyes would look like, slightly wide with surprise and rimmed with hurt as his brain put the pieces together.

“The Met doesn’t take citizen advice in solving cases and especially not the advice of teenagers, you understand,” Lestrade tried but Sherlock was frozen and John wanted nothing more than to bundle him up back to their rooms and remind him just how brilliant he was.

“You didn’t listen to anything I said, did you?” Sherlock said, his voice incredibly fragile. “You didn’t arrest any of the murderers.”

“Sherlock listen, the Met can’t just go arresting people because some boy says he proved in his backyard they did it,” Lestrade explained but Sherlock wasn’t listening.

“Those are murderers!” he yelled, getting furious. “They killed people! And you’re just letting them go free because I’m a minor?”

“Look kid-“ Lestrade said but that’s the wrong thing to say and Sherlock isn’t mad anymore, he’s furious.

“I am not a kid,” he spat out, practically quivering with rage.

Lestrade eyed the two boys nervously; Sherlock on the verge of an outburst and John still, perched on edge. “If you want-“

“You’re an inspector,” Sherlock began and John knew they were done for. “Have been for five- no six years. Desperate to move up but you just can’t quite get there, can you? Stuck, that’s you, stuck at work, stuck in a loveless marriage. You’re wife cheated on you, thought about leaving, but you forgave her. Bad move, cheaters always cheat again. Two kids, young, toddler and baby- so that’s why you won’t leave her. Dog too, short haired. Poorly trained, but that’s your kids fault, they feed him scraps.

“And me. Oh, you think you’re so clever, sitting over there deducing things about me. You’re wrong of course, wrong on all counts. You’re eyeing the bruises on my collar, think I’m abused. You’re considering calling child services. Don’t bother, they’re not bruises, and you’d know what they were if you had had sex in the last four months. But you don’t because you haven’t and you’re a shite detective who thinks I’m just a “kid”.”

The inspector gaped at him, eyes widened to just pupil. “How?” he breathed, staring at Sherlock like he’d just punched him.

“Wedding ring, never washed- but you’re a clean man. State of your marriage right there. There’s dried milk on your sweater and mud around the knees of your pants so toddler and infant- obviously. Dog hairs on the cuffs of your pants and shoes, small dog- poorly trained. And as for the sex- you just ooze sexual frustration,” Sherlock said, his face impassive. “Now do you want my letter or not?”

Lestrade was silent for a minute before getting up. “I’ll be outside, yes?” he asked and Sherlock nodded curtly before bounding upstairs, John on his tail.

“Sherlock-“ John said, following him into the bedroom, as Sherlock began rooting around in his desk drawers.

“In a minute, I need to find this letter,” Sherlock waved him off but John grabbed his hand, pulled him against the wall and kissed him thoroughly.

“You have no idea how much it turns me on when you do that,” John muttered against his mouth, his hands coming up to dig deep into Sherlock’s hips, his own hips drawing dizzying circles, back and forth against the boy.

“Noted,” Sherlock moaned and then pushed the older boy off of him. “Now do try to restrain yourself a minute.”

“Bloody difficult” John muttered and followed a grinning Sherlock down the stairs and outside to where Lestrade stood awkwardly.

“Read the others,” Sherlock ordered, handing the note to Lestrade. “You don’t have to give me credit, by all means say they were your deductions. I’ll send all my letters directly to you from now on, yes?”

Lestrade nodded, looking down, and Sherlock huffed.

“Imbeciles,” he muttered and of course, that was the moment Mycroft and Harry chose to return from their walk in the garden.

Mycroft seized up the situation immediately and turned quickly to Harry. “Wait inside for me. Seems Sherlock’s gotten himself into a bit of trouble.”

John expected no less than an eye roll from Harry but she merely nodded at Mycroft and headed inside, bumping John’s shoulder as she did. Mycroft strode over to the inspector and stuck out his hand.

“Ah Inspector, how can I help you?” he asked politely.

“How did you-“ Lestrade struggled and then seemingly gave up. “You’re Sherlock’s father?”

“Brother,” he corrected. “I’m afraid our mother is currently preoccupied.”

“And your father?” Lestrade asked.

“More permanently preoccupied,” Mycroft excused. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Inspector Lestrade,” the detective said, shaking the offered hand.

“Now what seems to be the trouble?” Mycroft asked, glancing at the boys who were doing their best innocent faces. John looked about as guilty as a bluebird. Sherlock looked like he’d just come back from a murder.

Lestrade shot the boys a glance, shoved the letter in his coat pocket, and stepped back. “No trouble,” he said, voice steady. “Misunderstanding was all. Good day, sorry to have bothered you.” And with that he strode back to his car.

There was silence as the inspector drove off and then Sherlock turned to his brother.

“He’s married,” he said pointedly.

“Well aware,” Mycroft said, turning around to head inside.

“With two kids!” Sherlock shouted after him.

“That’s lovely,” Mycroft called over his shoulder, meeting up with Harry in the hallway and heading inside.

“I may have just created a monster,” Sherlock said, turning to John with huge eyes.

John held back a laugh. “It could’ve been worse,” he reminded him, slinging an arm over the taller boy’s shoulder. “Scotland Yard could have seen the hickeys you left  _me._ ”

“I’d like to see them try and get so close,” Sherlock growled and they headed back upstairs, John’s laugh echoing against the marble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys- Shay here. So, we need to have a little discussion. The summer's almost over and our boys have to get back to school. I was thinking of writing a sequel of their next summer together with a couple of bridge chapters thrown in. What do you think? Do you like it? Do you not like it? Do you want to just continue here? Do you want me to wrap this story up so you can get on with your lives? Do let me know.
> 
> As always- hearts and kisses.


	14. Wish me Well

John was packing his bag. Sherlock knew he was and yet the action made no sense, John kneeling gently and placing folded clothes in his suitcase.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the edge of Jon’s bed, watching him with hawk eyes.

“-and your Mum said we’re invited to your house in London for Christmas so that’ll be fun,” John was talking but Sherlock was only catching every other word. He kept watching John’s arms place clothes and it should have been the reverse, John should have been unpacking- moving in permanently.

“I’m graduating June but I stop classes around March, so I may be able to swing by and say hi if I’m not slaving over A levels,” John planned, placing his socks in the bag. “Eton’s not that far from central London, no? Just a train.”

“John,” Sherlock had to stop this inane ranting.

“Yeah Sherlock?” John asked, looking over at him.

“Are we… done?” Sherlock asked carefully, trying out the words.

“What do you mean?” John asked, eying him. Sherlock watched him pack that bloody book into his bag. Sherlock had expected something about crime. Or at least something in a foreign language- for all the attention John gave it. All it was was a worn copy of _The Beginner’s Guide to Medicine._  Dull.

“I mean… well the internet said… that sometimes summer relationships are just… summer things,” Sherlock tried to explain haltingly. It was as though his tongue refused to cooperate in his mouth, an awkward, unwieldy thing. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. He wanted to pretend everything was normal and close his eyes.

John smiled at him,  _tosser_. “It’ll be hard yeah but I don’t want to break up? Is that was we call this?”

“That would imply we’re dating,” Sherlock said, unsure of where this was going.

“Which would make you my boyfriend,” John winked at him.

Sherlock was startled. “You’re… okay with that?”

“Well the term is a little cliché,” John agreed. “But I certainly like the idea of you not snogging anyone else.”

“I really don’t have that many people lining up for a snog,” Sherlock pointed out. “But you do,” he said carefully, holding his own hand.

“Well perhaps not lining up…” John laughed, Mary’s  _see you around_  looming large in his mind. “But I can make my excuses. If that’s what you want.”

“I think I’d like that very much,” Sherlock whispered and John smiled at him, melting his heart, sending the fragments jittering across his skin.

“Well that’s sorted then,” John said, picking up a pair of sweatpants. He turned them over and then held them out. “Here, you want them back?” he offered, holding out Sherlock’s sweatpants.  _The sweatpants that started a relationship._

“Keep them,” Sherlock advised. “Wear them when you miss me.”

“I’ll have to wash them eventually,” John laughed and Sherlock could have burst.  _I do not deserve John Watson. No one does really, but least of all me._

“John-“ he started but he was standing up before he could remember getting up and he was kissing John gently, barely brushing their lips together. And John couldn't get air into his lungs fast enough and then they stopped working altogether as all the technicians shook hands and walked out, shaking their heads at the idea they could handle Sherlock Holmes.

It was the sort of kiss you sunk into, their mouths slowly opening each other- slick slide of tongue and skin against skin. John tasted like coffee and musk and something he’d grown used to and it pleased him, selfishly, to know he’d been the only one to taste this for a long time. John wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s waist, anchoring himself, and Sherlock let one hand cup John’s check before gently nipping at his bottom lip.

He dragged his teeth along it and John moaned appreciatively against the younger boy’s mouth; all this from a kid who’d only had his first kiss two months ago. The kiss became rather savage after that and they were biting and crawling at each other, desperate to leave marks that m the months of separation, and Sherlock was giving John a run for his money, fighting valiantly for dominance and John considering giving it to him.

John sunk his fingers tighter into Sherlock’s skin and tugged him closer. Sherlock tugged on John's hair just the right amount. And John's blood was quite possibly on fire, rushing to all the wrong places.

Sherlock's hands were on his hips drawing the same patterns John could draw in his sleep, could see in his dreams. Sherlock's teeth were grazing the skin on his neck, and he couldn't help but let out a small moan.  _Where did you learn to do that?_  he wanted to ask. _I didn't teach you that_. And then Sherlock bit down, sucking like John had patiently taught him, and John got it.

 _He’s marking me,_  John realized with a sudden jolt.  _Dear god, he’s scared he’ll never see me again._

As if to confirm John’s line of thought, Sherlock drew back with a shudder, his hands still dug deep into John’s hips, his mouth inches from John’s, their foreheads touching, keeping each other upright.

“Stay,” he murmured.

“I’ll see you Christmas,” John said softly, trying to keep himself from diving back into the warmth that was Sherlock’s mouth.

“Not soon enough,” Sherlock cried quietly, his teeth reaching for John’s lip and John let him suck at it for a minute before detaching and holding Sherlock against his chest.

“You have my number,” he reminded the boy. “Call me.”

“I’ll miss your face,” Sherlock said, reaching up fingers to rub across John’s cheeks.

“Is that all you’ll miss?” John grinned lewdly and Sherlock grinned back, letting go gently. John reached down to zip up his suitcase and then he took Sherlock’s hand, entwining their fingers, and the two made their way downstairs.

The driveway of the mansion was not a sight for the fainthearted. Victoria and Cynthia held each other’s hands, saying kind words to each other in front of the grey Chevy. Sherlock could catch snippets of their conversation, ”Always such a pleasure,” “The children got along so well,” “You  _must_ come back next summer.”

Mycroft and Harry stood at the other end of the driveway, whispering to each other too low for Sherlock to catch. He saw Mycroft reach up a hand to push back on of Harry’s curls as she dug the heels of her combat boots into the gravel and then they were hugging and Sherlock could have choked. Mycroft did not  _hug_  people.

But he had John next to him and he simply held him, letting himself collapse into the older boy’s embrace.

“Thank you,” John said quietly.

“Why are you saying thank you?” Sherlock asked in shock.

“For giving me… this,” John said honestly. “I know this isn’t usual for you. Or even normal. So thank you. For… trusting me.”

“I adore you John Watson,” Sherlock confessed, and he was rewarded with the sight of John’s eyes widening and his mouth curving upwards in an uncontrollable smile.

“I adore you, you utter berk,” John laughed and they hugged again, holding each other until Cynthia Watson called out and John let go long enough to put his suitcase in the car and head to the car door.

“John!” Sherlock called desperately, and John paused with his hand on the door handle. But Sherlock had nothing to say. He just didn’t want John to leave.

John seemed to understand and he smiled at Sherlock, giving him one last glance of oceans, before he was in the car and it was driving off.

The three Holmes stood in the driveway, a dramatic parody of two months prior. Victoria was the first to move, turning around to head inside.

“Lovely people,” she said happily. “And Sherlock, if you’re going to engage in such pedestrian behavior, have the decency to wear a higher collar,” she instructed, shooting the bruises along Sherlock’s collarbone an offended glance.

Sherlock heard the house door close behind her before he turned to Mycroft.

“You got along particularly well with Harry,” he noted.

“It would seem so,” Mycroft said, unmoved.

“How?” Sherlock asked, honestly puzzled. “You don’t have  _friends_  Mycroft.”

“Neither do you,” Mycroft reminded him but Sherlock wasn’t done.

“She’s so very different from you,” he pointed out.

Mycroft let his gaze rest on his younger brother for a long time before answering. “Broken things attract each other Sherlock. Always looking for their missing pieces.”

“You’re not broken,” Sherlock said. Mycroft was perfect. The sun rose and set on Mycroft. He could stop the world if he wanted to. He was hardly _broken._

“I need to get back to Uni,” Mycroft said in lieu of an answer and he headed inside to pack.

Sherlock stood outside on the gravel driveway for what seemed like ages until he felt his cell phone vibrate. The sensation was so unfamiliar, no one ever texted him. He pulled out the phone and paused at the text.

_Miss you already._

Sherlock was sure Christmas could not come soon enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it people! We made it to the very last chapter. The people have spoken and we shall have a series! Expect bridge chapters very soon. Those should be oodles of fun. And angst. But mostly fun. 
> 
> All of this would not have been possible with you guys, your love, your kisses and your support. Love you long time.  
> See you super soon! 
> 
> I'll try to post the first bridge chapter as soon as possible so you have something to subscribe to, even if the next few chapters are a little late in coming.
> 
> XOXOXO- Shay


End file.
